Workshop Writers

God,
              I am so tired.
I am so tired of being 
              The brown sacrificial lamb
Amongst 
              The educated liberal elite.
I am tired of being 
              The Token.
I am tired of being
              Just the living, breathing, 
                       Symbol
              Of your superior morality.
I am tired of your assurances,
              Of respect and equality;
That always come
              On your terms.

I am tired
            Of your support.
I am tired of 
            Your support that 
                Evaporates,
             Like cigar smoke,
Leaving only 
             A lingering stench, 
             And a slight stain.
I am tired of the next new cause,
             The next new fight,

I am tired of listening 
          To liberal 
                     ROARS 
          Of indignation,
That drown out the child
                      Crying
          Beside them.

I have been tired
           For.  So.  Long.
I have been tired 
           Since I was 4-years old
When I watched,
           With my mixed-blood, 
           All-American eyes,
As my cousin,
           Nine. Months. Pregnant.
           Was physically forced 
           On a bus,
While her
           Two-year-old; 
           Mixed-blood; 
           All-American; 
           Brown child;
                       Screamed, 
In my mother’s 
           White arms.
Where was your roar of indignation then?

How can I help?
How can I help,
             You’ve asked 
                        A million times.
            How can I be, 
            An ally?
            You like that word 
		     Ally.
You, rage 
Against the immoral and harmful,
           Then you go buy your rainbow shirts, 
           Made by Indonesian 
                       Children
From Target.  

 You Protest!
Against, unfair and un-equal laws,
Then you line up at the taco truck
           Quibbling about the price,
           And questioning the hygiene
	               Of all those involved
	               As you eye
                       The group of teenage boys, 
           Whose dark hair
                       Glints
In the same sun that you 
           Mistakenly thinks, 
Powers your car.

You March!
Against injustice 
            And for humanitarianism!
But you march around,
          Giving a wide berth
 	  To the homeless man
 	             Who, though
		     He served your country,
 			        Can’t. Afford. His. Meds.


So Please,
	   My dear
   Liberal
   Friends
My Allies,
Leave me out of your 
           Go-fund-me, 
                   Feel-good, 
March around the capitol,
Followed by fundraising margaritas 
And complementary
            Tequila tasting,
Served by women 
	     In the faux lace blouses
		         Of a conquered
                          Peasant class.
I refuse 
To reduce people
Into mere
Political Pawns.

I am still tired
I am still, 
            So,
                       Tired, 
But I can’t rest.
Because when this political climate changes
When 
            The next
            Humanitarian crisis 
            Has caught your fickle eye,
When 
            The next 
            Well-meaning petition 
            Comes across your feed 
And when your friends 
           Jump in their hybrids 
           To form the next 
                     Committee
I will still be here.
           Like I have 
                       Always been
Actually living the fight.